


Clementine

by Fishwrites



Series: Portraits of Citrus [1]
Category: James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Sleepy Kisses, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 10:14:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2689055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fishwrites/pseuds/Fishwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q had fallen in love with Collioure for the quiet and the colour; James had fallen in love with Q’s expression when he hung the Matisse over the fireplace. </p><p>In which Q wears three of James' sweaters at once, because Q before his morning cup of tea is a phenomenon to be studied. (Domestic morning routine in the south of France). Illustrated by bjodoodles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clementine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bjobjo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjobjo/gifts).



:i:

 _"The love we give away is the only love we keep."_  
– Elbert Hubbard.

:i:

It wasn’t that Q was a night person, or a morning person.

Q didn’t seem to have a particular sleeping schedule that was dedicated by anything other than whatever he was working on. It had nothing to do with the sun or the moon or the seasons (though he had a penchant for staying in bed when it was too cold, dragging food and electronics into the duvet with him). Sometimes the bed would be empty when James woke for his morning run (five thirty sharp every day), and sometimes Q would still be there in the afternoon, bare feet hanging off the side as he hoarded all the pillows onto one end of the bed.

As such the bed was possibly the most important feature of the apartment – it certainly took up nearly the whole of the bedroom. It sat, heavy and luxurious in its dark honey wood frame, edges scuffed with one too many evenings doused with wine and freely given kisses. There were matching bedside cabinets with antique brass lamps Q found at the Sunday market.

The bedroom itself had a curving bay window filled with glass that trapped the sun in winter and the sound of waves in summer. If you threw them open, you could smell the sea salt on the sheets in the evening, tucked comfortably in between the tea-leaf scent that seem to stain Q’s fingertips – no matter how many times James kissed them.

Despite the erratic hours, winter meant that Q didn’t like being out of bed before the sun had warmed the floorboards – and so it was James who was usually up first in the morning. He would wake first, untangle himself from the mess of legs, arms and pillows, rescue Q from being smothered by his own duvet – before throwing on his running clothes.

He would open the blinds in the living room to let the sun in once the sun had defrosted, and take down the tea tin from the top shelf for when Q inevitably awoke. Cutlery he would put in the dishwasher, safe from uncaffienated elbows. He retrieved Q’s glasses from the bathroom and placed them next to the sleeping man, folded next to his lamp. Q wouldn’t notice them there – but James was a man who liked to live in hope.

Checking the alarms and the locks, James would pick up his phone and wallet, shove his feet into running shoes, and close the door before the chill could creep into the apartment.

 

 

Collioure in winter was like any other sleepy French town. It wasn’t cold enough for snow yet, but there was frost lining the grass along hill, and trees threw thin grey silhouettes across the road. The window boxes were dripping with flowers somehow, splotches of colour staining pastel stone houses. Q had fallen in love with Collioure for the quiet and the colour; James had fallen in love with Q’s expression when he hung the Matisse over the fireplace. The apartment was full of paintings now, short stories living between James’ books and Q’s computers.

It was nice, running this early: less people, less noise – no need to exchange rusty French with anyone. James liked to switch his route every day so as to not be predictable, but he made a point of running past Q’s favourite patisserie on the way home two hours later.

The city was waking up, and the bakeries started leaking enticing scents of fresh baguettes and jars of raspberry preserve. Imported clementines sat like fat yellow apostrophes, bookending the round-vowelled French that were tossed across the pavement like the morning’s first cigarettes.

James bought a fresh baguette, strawberry jam, a few Clementines and a paper box full of sugar-dusted pastries for Q’s sweet-tooth. They were separated by little squares of folded paper, but James balanced them on top of the fruit to save them from being totally squashed on the way home. He tucked his wallet back in his pocket, adjusted his holster and the two knives strapped to his thigh, and made his way home.

 

 

By the time James arrived at their apartment and climbed all eight flights of stairs to the top, it was to the sight of Q standing blearily in the kitchen. He had his back to the living room, and seemed to be having an intense staring contest with the kettle.

Q was also wearing what appeared to be all the sweaters that James owned – but no trousers. He was standing there, barefoot on the floorboards, complete with gravity defying hair and a put out expression.

“Morning,” said James, trying and failing to keep the smile from his voice. He set down the food on the breakfast table. Q made a twitchy, aborted movement in his direction, but didn’t look away from the kettle.

“My legs are cold,” he said, vowels sanded and hoarse with sleep.

“Well,” said James, extracting the pastries and the baguette from the fruit, “You don’t seem to be wearing any trousers, dove.”

“They don’t fit me anymore,” said Q, rubbing his eyes with one hand. “I think – think something went wrong with washing. Sweaters got loose too.”

He and James were about the same height, and their arms were about the same length – but James’ shoulders were about three times broader than Qs with the result that even with the multiple sweater layering, the sleeves still hung heavy past Q’s knuckles.

He rubbed his eyes again as the kettle whistled, steam spiralling out into the chilly morning air; a gust of translucency that picked out all the dust motes in the sunlight streaming in from the window above the sink. It elongated Q’s shadow so that it spilled into James’ own, where he was standing against the table. Q yawned expansively, one sweater sleeve against his cheek.

“Smells nice though,” he said, absently, poking at the kettle switch. Reaching up, he opened the cabinet and felt around for a long minute.

James waited until Q realised the tea tin was already on the counter top. He could have said something, but far be it for a man to interrupt the view that was a oversized cashmere sweater riding up to expose a very nice arse. James was not that kind of man. He let Q struggle, palm tapping against empty shelving until he spotted the tea tin near his hip.

Q dumped tea into his mug, elbows banging into table corners all the while until James took pity on him and poured the hot water in before someone burned themselves. He took the opportunity to slot himself behind Q, the gentle arch of his spine and the curve of his neck. James rested his chin on Q’s shoulder, bare and warm because the sweater had pulled too far to the left.

“I think the clothes look fine,” said James, putting the kettle back down and one-handedly starting the coffee machine. “Except you might be wearing too many.”

Q made an inhuman noise and dropped a cube of sugar into his tea. James let the coffee machine start up, sliding his free hand beneath the plethora of sweaters until he found Q’s hipbone. He slotted his hand into the divot, a key finding its lock. Q had no such poetic thoughts, twisted against the bench and gave a truly insincere attempt to swat James away.

“Hand,” he said, “Cold.”

“But you’re wearing three hundred layers,” said James, laughing against Q’s ear and not letting go. "One might even go so far as to say an _excessive_ number of layers _."_

“They’re heavy,” Q agreed, because pre-tea Q was not one for logical consistency.

“Mmhm,” said James, pressing a kiss beneath his jaw, “Would you like some help with that?”

Q gave him an unimpressed side-long stare that said he knew exactly what James was doing – but wasn’t actually protesting. And because James was nothing but obliging, he helped divest Q of the outer most layer; a thick cashmere sweater. It was a soft teal colour, and fitted James like a glove.

“I don’t think you need this one either,” said James kissing a trail behind Q’s left ear, nipping it – and using the distraction to extract him from the second sweater (a black, wide-necked turtleneck knit).

“ _James_ ,” said Q, stern and annoyed but unable to keep the smile from his voice, “My tea!”

James slid his hand from Q’s hip to the smooth skin above, fingers tickling. Q yelped, twisting, and James stole the laugh right from his lips when he turned. He pressed Q against the counter, sliding the tea to safety and using the same movement to push his free hand up the length of Q’s back. Q jerked against the cold hand, but obligingly lifted his arms when James pulled the last sweater free.

Q was frowning at him, an almost pout, stern and petulant and overwhelmingly disdainful all at once.

“This is making me colder, not warmer,” he said, folding his arms across his chest.

He turned his head up and away, so that when James went in for another kiss, it landed on his jaw instead of his mouth. Undeterred, James grinned and kissed downwards until he reached collar-bones.

“Mm,” he said, “That’s regretful.”

“Is it,” said Q, flatly.

“Let me make amends,” said James, lust warming his chest and stomach, low and pleasant.

Q reached over and hooked his tea mug with a long index finger. Cradling it close, he took a long sip. The noise he made after was indecent.

“No sex before tea,” he said, after a long bout of foreplay with said tea.

James raised both his eyebrows.

“Really,” he said.

Q didn’t even bother answer, just made more orgasm noises into his mug.

“I even brought you pastries,” said James.

It was a truly sad affair, but he had to compete with tea somehow.

Q paused; peering at James above the lip of his mug, nose pink with the warmth of his drink. It was unspeakably dear, and James thought it was really the ultimate sign of his old age that he thought he had never been more content than right now, right here, standing barefoot on old French floorboards and watching Q stubbornly drink English tea.

“What kind of pastries?” he asked, tilting his head like a bird considering an offering.

James pulled the tea from Q’s hands, setting it down on the table. It was all the warning Q received before James bodily hoisted him onto the counter and proceeded to kiss all the laughter from his lungs. Q gave as good as he got, hands in James’ hair, thumbs framing the corner of his jaw. He hooked his legs around James’ hips, cold ankles pressing into the back of James’ thigh.

“Let’s move this to the bed,” he said against James’ ear.

“You are full of good ideas,” said James, and moved his right hand from Q’s hip to his arse. “Hold on.”

“You sure this is good for your back, old man?”

James bit Q sharply on the lip in reprimand and received a laughter honey gold in return.

“I’ll show you what old men can do,” he said, voice low and full of promise.

 

People in the business often thought that domesticity was a sin; inevitable loss wrapped in warm arms and complacency. Perhaps years ago, James had thought the same. But now, as he poured Q back into bed, limbs loose and affection lazy, he knew that wasn’t so.

Home was where the blade slept, edges sharp and still. Home was turning when he woke and being smothered in Q’s unmanageable hair.

Home was a pair of half framed glasses beside a Walther on the bedside table.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is actually a timestamp/outtake from a AU verse that Bjodoodles and I are currently working on. We managed to smash through some truly insane amounts of logic and plot holes today I took a break from all that thinking by writing fluff. And this was the result.
> 
> Because it's a future fic the relationship is already established. Please feel free to drop any crit! x hope you had some warm fuzzies.


End file.
